The Master Theme

A Slovene wreath your poet has entwined;
A record of my pain and of your praise,
Since from my heart's deep roots have sprung these lays,
These tear-stained flowers of a poet's mind.

They come from where no man can sunshine find,
Unblest by soothing winds of warmer days;
Above them savage peaks the mountains raise,
Where tempests roar and nature is unkind.

They were all fed on many a plaint and tear;
Frail growth these blossoms had, so sad and few,
As over them Malignant storm-clouds flew.

Behold how weak and faded they appear!
Send but your rays their glory to renew -
Fresh flowers will spread fragrance far and near.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
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